


Inquartata

by incandescent (lmeden)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Incest, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/incandescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man fences for money, Jon is told. When he asks what fencing was, she tells him that it is a kind of sword fighting. But this is no kind of fighting that Jon recognizes. </p>
<p>Also: adult, changed, snow, wolves, North, swordfights, hair, similarity, mirrors</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inquartata

The man fences for money, Jon is told. When he asks what fencing was, she tells him that it is a kind of sword fighting. But this is no kind of fighting that Jon recognizes. 

He leans against the window, watching the slim fighter and his even slimmer sword move. He’s making short work of poor Harry, down in the practice yard. 

“Where did you get this one?” he asks, directing the words over his shoulder. 

Melisandre steps up next to him. “The East. He said he was fencing in the taverns of Braavos when he angered some powerful people. He was forced to flee, apparently.”

“And you don’t believe him?” 

Melisandre sends him a steady look. “I looked into the fire and saw nothing of his past. Only darkness and fog. It is as if, before he set foot on the shores of Westeros, this man never existed.”

Jon frowns and turns his gaze back down to the yard. Harry lunges and the man steps aside, swinging his back foot around and slipping out of the way of the point of Harry’s sword with hardly an instant to spare; at the same time, he lunges forward, flicking the point of his own thin blade up in a movement too fast to track. Harry roars as the point gouges him, and flinches back. 

“What did he say his name was?” Jon asks. 

“He didn’t,” Melisandre replies. “He said that he had no name, and didn’t need one.” She smiles at the look at Jon sends her. “I thought you might be intrigued.”

He nods and pushes away from the window, carefully making his way across the room. He lifts Longclaw from the back of the chair where he’d left it and straps the sword on. He’s had a full month to heal from the attack, but he’s still dangerously weak. Even walking is still a challenge, at times. 

Still, it doesn’t hurt to look as if he’s recovered. 

“Let’s take a closer look at this one, then.”

He’ll have to decide whether the boy should be killed, or whether he can be used. It all depends on why he’s here. 

Moments like this make Jon despise the Lord Commander’s position.

-

“Stand down,” Jon snaps as he walks across the practice yard. 

Gasping, Harry stumbles back. The nameless man tries to follow, a snarl on his face and his sword darting forward, but Jon seizes the slim blade in his gloved hand, very much aware that such weapons hold little fear for him any more. The man’s brown eyes fly wide as he takes in Jon’s grasp, and he skids to a stop. 

Jon looks down, considering, then tightens his grip and pulls. The man lets go of his sword and Jon lifts it, reaching up with his other hand to grasp the hilt. How strange. The blade itself is unsharpened and dull; only the point contains a gleaming edge. 

Extremely impractical. 

Jon looks past the blade and stares at the man’s face. His hair is a dirty brown, and his skin is pale – a shading that is, as far as Jon knows, uncommon in someone native to the lands across the Narrow Sea. His features are delicate, and ever so slightly familiar. Jon frowns. 

The man ducks his head suddenly. “My Lord,” he rasps. “I apologize for being overzealous.”

“I wonder,” Jon says, “if you could tell me why you’ve come to the wall. And to Castle Black.” He takes the man’s blade by the hilt and shoves it into the ground, letting the pointed tip do most of the work. The man glances up through his hair, and flinches as he sees his sword. 

“It was where the ship landed, my Lord.” The man has no accent, not a single distinguishing feature to his vice except its roughness. 

Jon allows himself a long moment consider. “I see no ships here,” he says, not taking his gaze off the other’s face. The man’s eyes flash angrily as he glances up. 

“You do not,” he growls, and shifts his stance. There is something strange about him; something off. 

_Ah_ , Jon thinks, realizing something. He smiles and turns away, ignoring the unsteadiness in his legs. This walk is a great deal more than he’s used to, lately. 

“Come with me,” he says, and heads back to the tower. He hears a crunching behind him as he’s followed.

-

When Jon reaches his rooms once more, he’s out of breath. He spots Melisandre sitting at the table, staring into the fire, and catches he gaze when she looks up. She raises her brow and he shakes his head, offering a small smile. 

She nods and stands, walking out quickly. The door closes behind her. 

Jon stops and rests a hand on the back of one of his chairs, trying not to look as if he’s leaning on it. 

“Will you tell me why you’ve come to Castle Black, my Lady?” he asks. 

The man (or, really, the woman) flinches, eyes widening abruptly. “What?” she snaps, voice still low and rough. If something within Jon wasn’t telling him otherwise, he could swear that she is a man. But somehow, he knows the truth, and now he can’t unsee it. It is something in the lines of her body, the way she shifts her weight as she stands, and the lashes that surround her eyes.  
“How dare you?” she hisses. 

“Can you prove differently?” He turns the question back onto her. 

She strides forward and reaches for Jon’s throat. He slaps her hands away, but she grabs for him again, and he doesn’t quite have the strength to force her back. He stares into her brown eyes, so wild and furious. Jon coughs as she grips him. He steps back, but his knees don’t quite hold up and he sags, still clutching the back of the chair. Of all the _godsdamned_ times. Gritting his teeth, he tries to stand. 

She shoves him back and his arse hits the table. He lets himself lean back against it, grateful. 

“I am no woman,” she snarls. “You saw me fight. Could a woman do that?”

Jon’s brow furrows. He’s dizzy, but not confused. “Of course. Not many women, but there are some.”

She regards him as if he’s mad. Jon takes in a deep breath and attempts to stand; a sharp pain flashes through him and he flinches, rests back upon the table. Giving up the pretense, he slides backwards until he’s nearly sitting on it. He wraps a hand around the woman’s wrist and pulls her close. 

She resists, feet perfectly placed, and twists her wrist. He lets it roll and reaches out with his other hand, grasps her belt and hauls her in. Thrown off-balance, she stumbles against him. 

For an instant, her hair brushes against his cheek, and then Jon kisses her. Perhaps his judgment is clouded after all, because she’s not the kind of woman that he would be kissing normally, and he doesn’t normally kiss woman at all, these days. There’s something about her fire that inspires him, though, and he feel the needs to drag some kind of admission from her. Even if it’s a silent one. 

She gasps and opens her mouth. Jon sweeps his tongue inside and watches her eyes fly wide. He quickly shifts his hand from her arm to loop around her waist, holding tight. His other hand works under her belt and into her trousers, and _yes_ , this is definitely a woman. 

He slides a finger into the warm folds of her cunt and she jerks against him, then bites down. 

Jon yelps and flinches back, his tongue throbbing. 

“I should kill you for that,” she hisses, and the roughness is gone from her voice. Instead, it’s higher, smoother, and very familiar to Jon.

_Oh._

His eyes widen and his stomach drops; he opens his mouth to say her name. The anger vanishes from her face as she sees his expression and she darts close and covers his mouth, pressing close to him and hiding her face. All he can see is the curve of her ear. 

“Jon,” she whispers. She’s so warm, and he just.

He stops the thought dead. “I’m so sorry,” he pleads, against the calluses on her palm.

Her laugh is harsh. “You wouldn’t say that to anyone but me. And I’m not… I’m not the person you knew.”

“Arya.” The name feels forbidden, like magic. It’s something he’s been hoping to say for so long that it feels unreal. The horror of having touched her is beginning to fade, to be replaced by a kind of evanescent wonder. She’s here, really here. She’s warm, and breathing, and _alive_.

“Don’t say that,” she says, her tone low in warning. “I can’t be that person anymore.”

“You’ll always be my sister,” Jon replies, and wraps his arms around her. She is stiff in his arms. He thinks back to the sword she’d been fighting with, down in the yard. Sharp only at the point, and dulled everywhere else. “No matter what.”

“I’m no one; no one’s sister, no one’s daughter. I’ve come back to finish this war, no matter what it takes.”

Jon draws back, hands on her shoulders, and looks into her eyes. Her gaze is firm and determined, and there is something missing from it. It looks like her sanity. Jon reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“You’re my sister,” he says. “You can’t leave me behind so easily.” He pauses. “Besides, you haven’t told me what happened to the sword I gave you.”

A tiny smile (and perhaps not even that) touches her lips. Jon watches as she hesitates, then meets his gaze. Something warm passes between them. 

“Needle,” she says, and the word feels like home.


End file.
